{"id":46947,"date":"2013-02-19T10:59:47","date_gmt":"2013-02-19T15:59:47","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=46947"},"modified":"2013-02-19T13:55:37","modified_gmt":"2013-02-19T18:55:37","slug":"hear-that-lonesome-gasket-blow-part-4-tonight-the-sea-is-douce","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/02\/19\/hear-that-lonesome-gasket-blow-part-4-tonight-the-sea-is-douce\/","title":{"rendered":"Hear That Lonesome Gasket Blow, Part 4: Tonight the Sea Is Douce"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Katherine+Mansfield2\"<\/a><\/p>\n

On the Saturday closest to my thirtieth birthday, I went out on the town with Andrew and Izzy, two of my Highbury flatmates. With my time in dreamy Wellington drawing to a close\u2014to say nothing of my waning metabolic rate\u2014the need to run a little wild at the end of an afternoon spent contemplating fiction felt realer than ever.<\/p>\n

To this end our trio wound up, at three in the morning, after hours of dancing, walking toward a Burger King on the corner of Cuba and Manners. This Burger King occupies the ground floor of a heritage building with an Edwardian Baroque fa\u00e7ade. Once home to the first Te Aro branch of the Bank of New Zealand, the building now shoulders what the local government describes as \u201cconsiderable townscape significance.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy uncle used to be the president of Burger King,\u201d said Andrew, sitting across from me and eating fries. The Burger King before us teemed with loud, drunken revelers.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can one-up you,\u201d said Izzy. \u201cMy grandfather used to be the chairman of the National Front.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s the National Front?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t know what the National Front is?\u201d said Izzy. \u201cAre you kidding me? Fucking Americans!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLook,\u201d I said. \u201cI know about a lot of things outside of America. I can\u2019t know about all of them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know what the Klu Klux Klan is,\u201d said Izzy.<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, of course.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s like the Klan, but in the UK.\u201d <\/p>\n

\u201cSo the UKKKK.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s not a step up,\u201d said Andrew. \u201cThat\u2019s two steps down.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOnly two?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

At this point, a red-faced, heavily slurring young man appeared as if out of nowhere and joined us at our table.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was going to punch you,\u201d he said to Andrew. Then, it sounded like he said: \u201cI thought you were myself.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou thought I was yourself?\u201d said Andrew.<\/p>\n

\u201cI was going to punch you,\u201d he repeated. \u201cI thought you were Marcelle.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh,\u201d said Andrew. \u201cWho\u2019s Marcelle?\u201d<\/p>\n

The young man set his burger down on the table. It looked like it had been rewrapped in its greasy paper after a brief manhandling. He hunched over it. \u201cI can\u2019t even eat this,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s … look at it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s sickening,\u201d I said. \u201cI already regret eating mine.\u201d Regret had not yet crossed my mind, but this seemed a better direction for the conversation than punching. \u201cIt\u2019s basically garbage,\u201d I added.<\/p>\n

The young man indulged in a drunk little chuckle. \u201cI might get sick.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t do that,\u201d said Andrew.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t get sick,\u201d said Izzy.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re fine,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cJust don\u2019t push <\/i>me,\u201d he said, swaying, \u201cand I won\u2019t throw up.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSo,\u201d I said, \u201cthis is where everyone ends up at the end of the night, after all the bars close. Do people hook up here? Like if they didn\u2019t meet anyone at the bar?\u201d<\/p>\n

Izzy said something about sex and death at Burger King.<\/p>\n

\u201cLook at this thing,\u201d said the young drunk. He unwrapped the burger, revealing a half-crushed, collapsing stack of seeded bun, mayo, meat, lettuce, angry yellow cheese. (I expected to see a slice of fuchsia beetroot\u2014the surprise ingredient in many New Zealand burgers.) He recoiled, closing his eyes tight. \u201cI can\u2019t even look at it!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s like a circle of life in here,\u201d I said. \u201cSex, death, garbage, eating…\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBirth,\u201d said Izzy.<\/p>\n

\u201cSex, death, garbage, eating, birth,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI took a bite of it and now I have the taste in my mouth,\u201d said the young man. \u201cIt\u2019s horrible.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s garbage,\u201d I said. \u201cIt has zero nutritional value. We\u2019ve all come here at the end of the night and paid to fill our bodies with garbage in this beautiful former bank.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPeople so hungry,\u201d said the young man, glaring around the Burger King. \u201cPeople so hungry they\u2019ll eat the face off your head.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhy are we doing this?\u201d I said. \u201cWhat are we doing with our lives?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHey,\u201d said Andrew, addressing the young man and pointing out Izzy\u2019s black vinyl bag on the chair next to him. \u201cWhat do you think of this bag?\u201d<\/p>\n

The young man gave the bag a long look, then shook his head. \u201cI\u2019m not even dealing with that bag right now,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

I spent part of my actual thirtieth birthday, two days later, refining my travel itinerary. New Zealand had been good to me, but the time was nigh to move onto other, more chaotic cityscapes: Jakarta, Singapore, a single Mardi Gras event with \u201cseven sensational party spaces\u201d in Sydney. A little more sight-seeing remained on my Wellington list, after which it would be time to say, as the Kiwis at the corner stores so often did on my way out the door with a bag of feijoa candies, \u201cSee ya!\u201d<\/p>\n

The next day, I walked down Tinakori Road, through Thorndon, to visit the birthplace of Katherine Mansfield. The beloved modernist described this place, in one of her short fictions, as \u201cthat horrid little piggy house which was really dreadful.\u201d Rather plain on the outside, maybe, but the interior presented a charming array of period pieces, reproductions, and sentimental bric-a-brac: family photographs featuring the beloved modernist, clematis wallpaper remade from a pattern discovered in fragments under the architraves, the doll\u2019s house that had something to do with her story \u201cThe Doll\u2019s House,\u201d and what I took to be a replica fruitcake on the dining room table. By the time I passed through the servery and into the scullery, I had become so used to staged inanimate treasures that I spent an unnecessary amount of time staring at the sodden pillow of a teabag in the sink, wondering where it fell on the spectrum of reality. The kind of teabag I was staring at in the birthplace of Katherine Mansfield must not have been manufactured until the mid-twentieth century, well after the beloved modernist had suffered a pulmonary hemorrhage trying to run up the stairs at George Gurdjieff\u2019s Institute for the Harmonious Development of Man, in Fontainebleau.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Thumbing through The Letters and Journals of Katherine Mansfield<\/i>, I read:<\/p>\n

\u201cTonight the sea is douce<\/i>.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe roaring of the sea was insufferable.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI hate <\/i>the sea<\/i>.\u201d<\/p>\n

Italics hers.<\/p>\n

The way back to my neighborhood cut through the Botanic Gardens. Huge fern fronds cast strange shadows, and a crush of hydrangeas grew up white, purple, or periwinkle, I guessed according to the acidity of the soil. That\u2019s what I had heard about hydrangeas.<\/p>\n

When I got home, I checked my email, and learned that one of my ex-boyfriends had just died of a drug overdose. I had not seen him in about five years, and we had definitely gone our separate ways in life, but the news still shocked me.<\/p>\n

Dazed and sad, I made a cup of tea and sat out in our overgrown lawn, in the sun. The neighborhood at midday was quiet and still. My laundry swayed on the line. Nobody I\u2019ve met in New Zealand has a tumble dryer to go with their washing machine; they hang their rows of empty shirts, let them billow dry in the infamous Wellington wind.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Another way back to my neighborhood, from the shops of Lambton Quay, is to take the historic cable car. On the day before my nocturnal visit to Burger King, I was down in Lambton Quay doing some birthday shopping. I needed, I deserved <\/i>a new shirt, a shirt that I could wear and wash and dry on the line. With the new birthday shirt now in my possession\u2014the softwash cotton shirt, the chambray shirt, the shirt referred to by the retailer as the \u201cArcadia Shirt\u201d\u2014I waited for the cable car to take me up the hill.<\/p>\n

Before long, the cable car came into view at the top of the sharply pitched tunnel. As it neared I noticed a little girl and her sister standing at the front of the car, right up against the window, rapt at the novelty and the view. When the car finally came to a halt, it gave a jerk, and the girl lurched forward into the window, hitting her nose somewhat hard. Though I couldn\u2019t hear what happened next, I watched as her sister gloated and laughed, having avoided injury, while the girl held one hand over her nose and clenched the other into a determined fist.<\/p>\n

That poor little girl<\/i>, I thought. I\u2019ll be writing about her within the hour.<\/i><\/p>\n

Evan James is a graduate of the Iowa Writer’s Workshop. His work has appeared in the <\/em>New York Times, the Sun, and elsewhere. He is writing a novel. He is also on Twitter<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n

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